It’s time for the pregnancy blog to close down. My baby is a month old and pregnancy seems like a million years ago. Just yesterday I tried to remember how badly it hurt to birth and I could no longer recall that information. Rest assured that birth amnesia or not, I am continually reminding myself that it was incredibly, blindingly painful and I will never intentionally impregnate myself ever again. Next month I turn 30 and I am ready for the next phase of my life. I am uber-excited for my 30’s. I am convinced that I will completely find myself and my place sometime during this next decade of life. These next ten years will not include birth control (as Brent is finally getting a vasectomy.) They will not include rushed trips to the pharmacy for a home pregnancy test. They will not include morning fucking sickness or a 65 pound weight gain that renders me unrecognizable to family and friends. These years are mine. I will raise two boys into men and two others into stinky, dirty, video-game-obsessed boys. I will finally lose the baby weight–ALL of it. Not just from this baby, but from the FIRST baby that took me out of a single-digit jean size for the last ten (ten!) years. Oh, no. I’m taking it all back. Amid baby puke and bathtime and laundry and dishes I am going to turn into a kickass 30-something. You just watch.

Enough of the rambling. I’m closing on my first house this week (very 30ish, right?) and Christmas is coming and I’ve got a new blog in the works for anyone who is interested. Please leave a comment if you’d like the address emailed to you.

Goodbye!

What my newborn does all day:

A breastpump megaphone:

The sweetest little body I’ve ever seen:

What you find on your camera after you snatch it out of your 3 year old’s curious little hands:

I’m coming to you in between feedings, after fingerfulls of lanolin on cracked bleeding nipples, after double mastitis that hit so hard and fast that I literally thought I might die, after a shower so quick you’d hardly call it a shower, after another inhaled meal before the crying begins again, after nights of broken sleep where I have begged the baby for just 10 more minutes of shut eye, after neverending loads of diaper laundry and ointment and explosive baby poop and changing one outfit only to have the fresh clothing immediately soiled, AFTER MAKING AN OFFER ON A HOUSE AT 8 DAYS POSTPARTUM, after surviving an entire week with my mother-in-law, after 30 pounds lost, a belly still soft like bread dough, a face pale and ashen and looking strange without a speck of makeup, a constant backache and my pelvis still popping around and maxi pads and disolving stitches and a ponytail 24/7 and a head full of numbers and schedules and chores and “must-do’s” and necessities and wants and Christmas coming too soon and scribbled down messages on the backs of my hands and the management of six separate individuals. I am spent and overwhelmed and yet I can hardly find the time to complain because I am too busy falling in love.